"Nothing to me? Why do you suppose I am here?" he answered.
"Madre de Dios!" muttered Señora.
"Doña Fernandez," he began after a pause, his voice trembling in spite of himself, "God knows I have tried to forget her, but I—I cannot!" and his voice broke.
"What?" cried Señora excitedly. "You don't really mean to say that you still—love her?"
"I do," answered Felipe fiercely, driving his heel furiously into the ground. For some moments neither spoke. Then a flush of anger mounted to Señora's brow and she cried:
"Fie! Don Felipe! Have you forgotten your self-respect? The handsomest, richest man in all Chihuahua running after an Indian—the woman who treated you so shamefully—an ingrate who is unworthy of a love like yours? If I could have had my way, she would have been whipped publicly! What would Don Juan, your father, peace be to his soul, say if he were alive? Love her!" she cried in a frenzy of hatred and jealousy. "How can you possibly love her, Don Felipe Ramirez?"
"How can I love her?" retorted Felipe fiercely. "Why does the grass grow? Why do the birds sing? Why do the streams run to the ocean? Why do the flowers turn to the sun? Tell me that, Doña Fernandez," he cried in agony and bitterness, "and I will tell you why I love her in spite of myself, in spite of what she did, in spite of every effort I have made to resist her fascination! God!" and he struck his breast with his clenched hand, "I wonder I did not kill her then and there, but I could not, I could not; I loved her so!"
"Dios, but this is strange!" gasped Señora, raising both hands for an instant and then crossing herself devoutly as if to avert the power of some evil—the spell which seemed to cling to Don Felipe and bind him as with hoops of steel. She did not realize that Chiquita belonged to that rare type of beings who seem immortal; that it was impossible to imagine her other than young, that the years could work no change within her, and although Felipe had not yet seen her, his soul must flame up at the sight of her as of yore.
Felipe was silent, his eyes cast on the ground. His face wore a malignant expression of pain and hatred, and he trembled in every limb.
The revelation of his anguish startled her. She stepped close up to him and laying her hand gently on his shoulder, said in a voice full of compassion, almost of pity: "I understand, Don Felipe! You still see her as she was when you last knew her—it is but natural. Of course you could not know, but she has changed since then. In the opinion of every one, she has fallen, degraded herself."